


Not Your Fetish

by Laiquilasse



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Morning After, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Skyfall, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Q, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-11-19 07:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11308407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laiquilasse/pseuds/Laiquilasse
Summary: Q’s eyes performed that flick down, and up, over that torso he knew well – could identify in a line up, or a body-bag, and back up again, to catch 007 performing the same action over his own, much scrawnier body.Q was willing to let this pass - if only Bond hadn’t walked past, and performed the same look again, this time lingering on Q’s bare chest.*Q doesn't want Bond to fetishise him, even if he does want the agent, rather badly.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Branching out into another fandom whilst I try and get back into the Sherlock saddle. A few disclaimers on this work:
> 
> 1\. I am not a trans man, but my beta reader is.  
> 2\. Q's opinions, thoughts and feelings about his body and his gender are not what every trans man feels or thinks. This story is not intended to be read in that way - everyone is different.  
> 3\. Please tell me if I can improve my use of terms in any way.  
> 4\. There will be mentions of transphobia, descriptions of sex, and depictions of dysphoria in this story. Please be mindful of your own triggers, and do not put yourself at risk. xx

It started because of the changing rooms.

Or, rather, it started because of Bond’s inability to wait for one of the Double-Oh-Designated changing rooms.

Or, rather, it started because Q had a lapse of himself, that he never normally would have. And once lapsed, it just seemed easier to go along with – as long as no one noticed.

The lapse in question was that of the showers. Q hated communal showers and changing rooms – had done since he was a teenager, but he cycled to and from work, and there was just no way he was about to let himself go without a rinse after arriving. He usually abused his position mercilessly, and let himself into the higher-ups private changing rooms (his keycard was rather more access-all-areas than it was supposed to be), but more than once he’d found the room fully occupied, and had been forced into the communal areas.

But, once there, he found it less horrifying than he remembered from school. The surfaces were all polished mahogany, chrome and gilt, and the showers themselves were frosted glass cubicles and discreet-height black panels, so really there was nothing to prevent one keeping one’s modesty. Q always took a pair of pants in with him, anyway. Dressing in front of the agents and staff was another thing. Fortunately, he wasn’t the only one dropping their towel to reveal underwear beneath, so if anyone noticed, they certainly didn’t care.

Well. There was one exception.

Q had seen Bond topless, and completely starkers, more times than he cared to count. Same with all the Double-Ohs. Q heard them having sex, taking showers, having toilet troubles after trying local food – it was something you just had to get on with. And never mentioned in the office. Q knew secrets, everyone at MI6 did, but Q knew _personal_ things, and that was the difference. So, when Q came out of the showers, towel around his waist, and noticed 007 exiting at the same time, there was the usual nod. And nothing else.

Except Q’s eyes performing that flick down, and up, over that torso he knew well – could identify in a line up, or a body-bag, and back up again, to catch 007 performing the same action over his own, much scrawnier body.

Q was willing to let this pass – he even let a flicker of interest register between his legs as he walked to the bench beside his locker to retrieve his clothes – if Bond hadn’t walked past, and performed the same look again, this time lingering on Q’s bare chest.

The look, and the agent, were gone in a moment, and Q felt his insides clench.

He didn’t doubt for a moment that Bond was double-checking something he’d seen on first glance. It was, for all Q was aware (and hoped) the first time he had seen the Quartermaster de-robed, and though Q didn’t kid himself for a second that Bond would be interested in his body sexually (men weren’t the problem, Q had listened in enough to know that much – it was more that Bond preferred his men like himself – built like brick outhouses), there was something about it that made him curious.

Q knew exactly what it was, and it made his hands tremble in fury and annoyance as he buttoned his shirt and did his belt up, finishing his ensemble with a navy cardigan that contrasted nicely with his pale skin. Despite what someone of his minions muttered amongst themselves, Q did know how to dress, and his wardrobe choices were deliberate.

He left the changing rooms just as Bond was tying his shoes, and didn’t bother giving him a backwards glance. Let the meat-headed agent think what he wanted. The workplace policy guidelines were there for a reason, and the slightest hint of harassment or phobia from him would see Q throwing the book (possibly literally) at Bond’s face.

Just let him try.

 

*

 

Of course, nothing happened.

At least, not for the first few days.

Q didn’t even see 007 until the Friday, and he was far too busy working on digital defences for the Trident system. He stayed late, and came in early, and even slept in his pokey office one night, as the system needed checking at three-hour intervals. So, by the time Friday came around, Q was exhausted, and irritable, and surrounded by even more mugs of half-drunk tea than usual.

“Q?”

He looked up from his laptop at 007, who was standing politely, hands folded in front of his belt. Which made Q look at his belt, and therefore his crotch. He felt like he’d been tricked. “What do you want, 007? It’s been a rather pressing week, as you’re well aware.”

“I’m just here for a collar mic,” Bond said. “Nothing strenuous.”

“I dread to think how you define _strenuous_ ,” Q opened a drawer next to him, and took out three mics. “I’d tell you not to lose them, but if you heeded any of my warnings usually, you wouldn’t be here looking for replacement equipment,” he held the mics out, each one in a tiny plastic bag.

“Maybe I just like coming down here,” Bond smiled, as he took the mics. “Ever think of that?”

“Not even for a moment,” Q lied, looking back at his laptop, so he wouldn’t have to look up at Bond. Even having the agent look down at him was enough to make him want to flinch on his tall chair.

Bond pocketed the mics, and gave the open, sterile room a sigh. “It’s like a goldfish bowl, Q, how do you put up with it?”

“I have nothing to hide,” Q said, then snapped his mouth shut.

If Bond noticed, he didn’t react. “I suppose it’s no different from having someone watch and listen in on your every move in the field.”

“No,” Q said, thinking of Bond’s last mission, where the entirety of Q Division had been treated to an audio of Bond receiving what they had all agreed had to be the blowjob of a lifetime judging by the amount of fuss and moaning it generated. “Albeit slightly less intrusive than what you have to go through,” Q added. “Office job perks.”

Bond smiled, and Q had to return it.

Until Bond’s eyes dropped to Q’s throat, his hands, his chest in rapid succession.

Checking.

He’d never shown Q a jot of interest, before this week, and now he’d seen him without a shirt… and here he was, flirting...

Q slammed the mental door on whatever warm feelings he had been allowing Bond to nurture, and turned his smile into a blank glare, the kind usually reserved for Mallory’s budget meetings. “Anything else, 007?”

Bond’s flirtatious smile faltered, barely. But enough. “That’s it, Quartermaster… for now.”

Q cursed his pale skin as the blush crept across his face, and Bond turned on his heel to leave. The Quartermaster gave it ten seconds before mentally kicking himself, and swearing under his breath.

So, Bond had a fetish. Hardly surprising. But why _this_ one?

Q took a swig of cold tea, gagging it down in distaste.

It didn’t matter how much he liked the idea of 007 carrying him into the bedroom, or his big, rough hands, cupping the back of his head, or growling nonsensical sweet nothings into his ear – this could not go anywhere.

Q was not about to be fetish fulfilment for anyone.

Not even James Bond.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains mention of periods.

Q wasn’t exactly celibate, though he wasn’t getting it nearly as much as he liked. It wasn’t his fault. It was everyone else’s. More often than not, he’d be picked up in a bar, or given more than one once-over on the dance floor, only to have to break it to the prospective partner that things might not be quite what they’re expecting.

And it happened again, that Friday night.

Q was enjoying being thoroughly snogged against the smoking shelter on the roof of the nightclub. The man doing the snogging was typically Q’s type – rugby player, thick thighs, grasping hands that roamed over Q’s arse and squeezed, hard.

“Uhhhh…” Q tried to arrange his thoughts properly. “Er, Chris, I need to –”

“You want to get out of here?” Chris breathed right over Q’s ear, making him shudder. “We can go back to mine, it's not far... You’re so fucking gorgeous…” his hand started to head down, over Q’s chest, down to his waist.

“W- Just I – I need to –” Q’s words dissolved as his partner’s hand pressed firmly against his crotch.

Chris’ eyebrows went up. “Oh. Are you not into this, or…” he touched again, frowning now. Then snatched his hand away as though Q was on fire. “Jesus!” He looked Q in the face, taking in the stubble, the snog-bruised lips, the flat chest, buttons of his shirt straining – clearly not hiding a binder, or anything of the sort. “What…”

“I was about to say, before you tried to grab at my cock,” Q straightened his shoulders. “I’m transgender.”

“You’re a girl?”

The last remains of Q’s smile dissolved into nothing. “No,” he snapped. “I am not.” He pulled his shirt sleeves down. “And, might I add, this is entirely _your_ loss.”

Chris gawped as Q strode back into the club, down the stairs to the flashing lights on the dancefloor, aware he was being watched and looked over, hating how any times he’d replayed the scenario upstairs, how sometimes men were ok with it (usually the bisexual ones, it had to be said, if they weren't the ones who wanted to _try a vagina_ , as one once said)… But more often than not they recoiled in horror at the idea that Q was lacking something they were after, and possessed something they had zero intention of getting into close contact with.

Q necked back three shots, knowing he would regret it in the morning, and allowed another man – much like himself, thin and tall and not his type at all – chat him up and drag him into the toilets. Q was down on his knees in moments, unzipping the man’s trousers, shoving them over his arse, and freeing his cock before fishing in his own back pocket for a condom.

“What’re you messing about at?” the man hissed.

“Just getting a –”

“Oh, fuck that,” the man grabbed his cock and started working it. “You’re not sucking me off through plastic. What are you – riddled, or something?”

Q felt anger flash for the second time that evening. He stood, though there was barely room in the stall, and glared nose-to nose at the man, whose hand had now stopped. “You immature little weasel,” he said, wishing his drunken mind could conjure up a more colourful insult. “You think you’re invincible?” He glanced down at the man’s withering hard-on. “Good luck with that.” Q let himself out of the stall, letting the door bang as the man with dropped trou yelped, groping for it to close.

Q left the club, collecting his cardigan and buttoning it as he exited into the fine drizzle.

Was everything going to be like this, from now on?

 _There’s always someone who wants you_ , his brain said as he lit a cigarette. _Someone who wouldn't say no, if you looked him in the blue eyes and offered._ Q snorted at himself. Desperate for shag he might be, he was not about to give it up for someone who thought he was a curiosity, a fetish, something weird and wonderful to be explored.

He was worth more than that, and he knew it.

 

*

 

The working week didn’t make up for the disappointment at the weekend. Q cycled in with his stomach clenching more than usual, and he suspected why. His suspicions were confirmed in the showers (back to using the Double-Ohs’ cubicles, since they were available), and he silently grumbled to himself as he pulled up one pair of pants with a sanitary pad stuck in, followed by a pair of boxer-briefs to hide the outline and any tiny hint of a rustle there might be.

He dressed, and walked to Q Branch with a face like thunder.

R, and the other underlings closest to him, noticed his foul mood immediately. Though they didn’t know the cause, they knew well enough to tread carefully around the Quartermaster, and to deal with as much of the low-level sniping as they could.

Q stewed silently, accepting tea when it was delivered to him, working standing rather than in his barstool chair, as it helped with cramps. He occasionally glanced up to see people working hard, and then went back to his coding. It was almost tolerable, working silently, not being bothered. Something he hadn’t done much since starting at MI6.

And was immediately interrupted.

“Q, a moment of your time?”

Q’s heart sank. “This had better be phenomenally important, 007.”

The agent’s stance flinched, minutely. It wasn’t important. “Perhaps I should come back later.”

“Perhaps.” Q didn’t bother raising his head. His uterus was taking this moment to try and claw its way out of his body. He cleared his throat, and winced.

Bond noticed, immediately. He stepped closer, and lowered his voice. “You’re in pain.”

“Well spotted, 007,” Q said, through gritted teeth. “You ought to retrain as a medic.”

“Are you ill?”

“No.” Q looked up, the cramp subsiding. “What did you want?”

Bond blinked. “I need my palm-print re-scanning. That’s all.”

“Re-scanning? Why on Earth… have you grown some new hands, or something?” Q gawped.

Bond opened his right hand, showing a shiny pink-white scar on the heel of his hand. “Slight incident in Berlin.”

“For God’s sake…” Q grabbed Bond’s hand for a look. “And this interferes with your gun?”

“Occasionally. M thought it best that the scar was scanned, in case.” Bond gave his fingers a small flex. And Q realised he was holding Bond’s large hand in both of his own, smaller, ones.

“Yes, well,” he let go. “That might be for the best. Heaven forbid you’re unable to fire your gun before you have the chance to lose it.”

Bond smiled, and Q hated how it seemed to take the edge off his internal aches.

“Go and speak to R,” Q nodded at his second in command. “She’ll arrange the re-scan.” He didn’t bother explaining why he was in no mood to start walking back and forth all over Q Branch, even though this was a job he would normally wish to oversee himself.

“I will do,” Bond nodded. “And… take care, Q. You don’t want that to turn out to be appendicitis, or something.”

“Oh, that is certainly not the case,” Q muttered. “Believe me.”

Bond gave him a curious look. “Quartermaster.”

“007.” Q half-watched the agent stalk over to R, and turn his charm onto her, apparently unperturbed by the fact that R was openly asexual, and entirely immune to Bond’s flirtations, aside from looking mildly queasy. Q would normally have rescued her, but today he’d sent Bond over. He hoped she wouldn’t hold it against him.

He held back a moan as he reached across the desk for his mug. Time for a visit to the kitchens. And the loos.

 

*

 

Q counted himself lucky. His parents had been entirely supportive of him, and Q had started HRT when he was sixteen, and had top surgery when he was nineteen. His natural slender build meant he was able to have laparoscopic surgery, his six-year-old scars mere short pink and stretched white punctures on his skin instead of the lines straight across the chest that he might have had. He had foregone bottom surgery entirely, purely for aesthetic reasons. He just didn’t like what was on the market. And his dysphoria was low enough to cope with on the rare instances it did flare up. He was never mistaken for a woman, so on a day to day basis, Q was entirely unbothered by the fact his cock was technically a clitoris engorged by testosterone.

But days like these, when he was bleeding and sore and fed up, he almost rang a private hospital from the toilets to make an appointment for a hysterectomy, no matter how much he would prefer not to have surgery again.

He washed his hands, and went to sort his tea, taking it back to Q Branch with a sigh. He was grateful to see the 007 had gone, and let himself into his office at the back of the room to pick up an external hard-drive he needed.

He stopped in the doorway, mug in hand, staring at what was sitting on his comfy chair.

“Oh,” R’s voice came from behind him. “Q, 007 left something for you in your office.”

“I can see that,” Q closed the door behind him, blocking out her voice as he went over to the cardboard box, and lifted the lid.

Inside was a hot water bottle, a soft blanket, a pack of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut, and a pack of ibuprofen tablets. A period-pain kit, if ever he saw one – the sort of thing Q would have assembled for himself, had he been lucky enough to be off work.

Q felt a flush of pleasure, immediately followed by a surge of hot shame.

Bond knew. He knew why Q was in pain, and a bad mood.

He knew.

Q slammed his mug down on the desk, tea spilling over his hand onto the woodwork before he tipped the contents of the box into the bin. He glowered for a moment, then fished out the painkillers.

There was no need to be stupid about all this, was there.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Contains transphobic slurs.***
> 
> Note on previous chapter: A lovely reader pointed out that it can be unusual (and sometimes indicative of underlying problems) for trans men to have periods if they are on HRT - whilst my beta reader tells me this is not always the case, I am not a doctor, and you should consult one if you are unsure about your own body.

The next time James Bond came down to Q Branch, there was a box waiting for him. Q had fished the thing out of the bin, deciding that the best way to put a stop to all this was to confront the agent head-on.

Bond knew, that much was obvious.

Q had been stealth his entire out-of-the-closet life, and he had no plans to change that. If he couldn’t erase the agent’s memories (and he was working on that), he would make sure Bond knew that spreading the information around would earn him a mission with a one-way trip before he could say ‘knife’.

Bond’s eyes widened as he saw the box on the central console table. “What’s this?”

“You know exactly what this is, 007,” Q snapped his laptop shut. “And it’s yours. Please take it away.”

Bond frowned. “…why?”

Q pressed his lips together, biting the insides before he spoke. “It isn’t… appropriate.”

“It’s not appropriate for me to give you some pain relief?”

“No,” Q insisted. “It isn’t. Take your box, please.”

Bond lifted the lid, and glanced at the contents. “The ibuprofen is missing.”

“I’ll reimburse you the sixteen pence, if you’re desperate,” Q snapped. “But…” he straightened his shoulders. “007, you can’t bring me things like that. It isn’t appropriate, or welcome.” He opened his laptop again. “And people will ask questions.”

“Ah.” Bond put the lid back on the box, and lifted it. “You should have said.”

“I just did. Now…” Q made a _get out of my department_ motion with his hand.

Bond took a step, then turned back around. “I’m sorry for upsetting you, Quartermaster,” he said. Then marched out before Q had a chance to formulate a reply beyond gawping at Bond’s retreating back.

 

*

 

A couple of weeks later, Q abandoned his usual Friday night haunt in favour of a club he hadn’t been to in a few years. It had developed a reputation for being a bit student-y, but had recently been bought out and refurbished into something with a heavy entrance fee and dark wood and a distinct lack of alcopops behind the bar.

He almost felt out of place, in his going-out attire (there were several men in suits in the first lounge, who all gave him careful once-overs), but in the second lounge and on the dancefloor, his tight shirts and jeans fitted in perfectly, and Q got a drink, choosing to lean against the bar to survey the revellers, and decide whether tonight would be a night for dancing, or trying to get off.

Since Bond’s ‘present’ the other week, Q had been somewhat over-conscious of his appearance. He chose his clothes carefully, despite what people thought, and they were designed to make him look older – people associated age with masculinity, he found. He even considered growing a beard, though he’d done that in university and hated the amount of maintenance it took – Q was useless in the mornings.

Now, overlooking the dancers, Q undid another of his shirt buttons, exposing a tiny flash of chest-hair, making himself look as though he’d already been shagged. It was _that_ sort of night.

“Hey, can I get you anything?”

Q looked around at the offering man. He was a fraction shorter than Q, with greying black hair, broad shoulders, legs that looked muscular – cyclist, Q judged, by the way he sat on the barstool. He was handsome enough, and old enough for Q to feel he wouldn’t want much more than a night with some twink he’d picked up in a club.

Q drained his glass. “As luck would have it, I’ve just finished my drink,” he put the long-stemmed glass on the bar.

The man grinned. “Champagne?”

Q nodded.

“Celebrating?”

“Not particularly. I just enjoy the taste.”

The man nodded, and gestured to the barman, indicating the two empty glasses, before turning back to Q. “You ought to be careful, drinking this stuff. It’s strong.”

“I’m well aware,” Q smiled. “I have an incredibly high tolerance.” This was a lie, but the man didn’t need to know that.

“A good job, too. Anyone’d be taking advantage once you were drunk… pretty thing like you.”

Now, Q was worldly enough to know that _pretty_ was happily applied to any and all genders these days. But for the Quartermaster, _pretty_ was a gendered word, and he wanted nothing to do with it.

“I’m not _pretty_ ,” he said, drawing the word out. “If you don’t mind.”

The man realised his mistake. “Well, whichever word you want to use, you’re it. Gorgeous, I mean. You here on your own?”

“Yes,” Q picked up his new glass.

“Planning on stopping long?”

“Unless I get a better offer.” Q sipped, as the man gave his body a thorough looking at, before licking his lips apart.

“What’s your name? I’m Daniel.”

“Nick,” Q lied. It was his go-to name for one-night-stands. “Nice to meet you, Daniel,” he offered a hand, and the man squeezed it before pulling him close, and planting a kiss on his jaw. It wasn’t unwelcome.

“I don’t suppose you want to get out of here? I know it’s still early… I can get us an Uber?”

“Mm, it is tempting,” Q fingered the man’s lapel. Expensive suit. City boy. Cycles to Canary Wharf. Lives close enough to do so. Doesn’t own a car, but could afford one. “Full disclosure, though… I may not be what you’re expecting.”

“What – you into something kinky?” Daniel drawled, his hands circling Q’s waist as he pulled him between his legs.

“Not precisely,” Q said. He swallowed, and decided to go for his most basic explanation. “I don’t have a cock.”

Daniel, rather than letting go in shock, frowned. “You’re… transgender?”

“Yes,” Q smiled. “Is that a problem?”

“Mm, not necessarily,” Daniel said, and Q could see his mind turning the information over. “So, you… you don’t have…” he looked at Q’s chest, at his open shirt. “Right. Ok. Yeah.”

“Still want to go?” Q asked.

“Well… I mean… Haven’t you had all your surgery?” Daniel asked.

Q tried to stamp down his annoyance. “There isn’t a tick-list of surgery to have before you get your Man Card,” he said, taking care not to snap.

“Ok, but… if you’ve still got a… how can you…”

Q sighed, and stepped back, necking half of his glass back. “Forget it.”

“No, I’m still… I still want to… I mean, it’s a bit hot, isn’t it? I’ve not been with a –”

Q held a finger up. “Finish that sentence and lose an ear,” he threatened. “I’m not your fetish.”

“It’s not a fetish. Shit, I’d never thought about having sex with a man who’s got a … you know? But it does sound hot.”

Q made a grating sound in his throat. “No. I’m sorry, but the fact I have a cunt shouldn’t make you –”

Daniel grabbed Q’s wrist, and pulled him close, again. He was strong. Q was strong, too – despite his thin frame, all MI6 operatives had to go through (and keep up with) basic training – and he wrenched his arm free easily.

“I wouldn’t.” He set his glass down. “Excuse me.”

“Christ, you’re a fucking pricktease,” Daniel spat. “You’ll never get a shag around here until you get a cock, you fucking tranny.”

Q’s witty response died in his throat, tasting of ash. He stared at the man, wondering how he could have gone from nice to venomous at the flick of a switch.

Then warm hands closed on his shoulders, making him jump.

“I don’t think Nick is going to have any trouble, is he?” a voice Q recognised came from behind him. “Of any sort?”

Q’s heart sank into his shoes. “Bond, what in god’s name –”

Daniel sat up, clearly seeing Bond as a threat. “Can I help you?”

“Not really, but I’m sure your friend can,” Bond smirked, and let his hands drop to Q’s waist, holding him close, beside him. It wasn’t at all unpleasant, it was actually warm, and nice, and Q hated how much his skin seemed to sing at the close contact.

“You’re welcome to her,” Daniel said, turning in his chair to face the bar.

Bond took a step towards him, but Q grabbed his elbow bone and squeezed. “Leave it, Bond. I’d rather not get thrown out quite yet.”

Bond nodded, letting Q lead them both over to a booth.

And immediately hissing in outrage. “Bond, what in god’s name are you doing here?”

“I was here first,” Bond shrugged.

“You most certainly were not, unless you mean you’ve been coming here since before I was born,” Q said, not caring for the hurt look in Bond’s eyes. “What _are_ you doing here?”

“Same as you, I think,” Bond raised his eyebrows.

“Well, no chance of that, now,” Q sighed. “I think everyone saw that. Even if they didn’t overhear, they’ll suspect drama.”

Bond hummed, and signalled to a passing waitress for drinks before sitting back in the booth. “Do you get that a lot?”

“Define _a lot_ ,” Q said, slumping next to the agent.

Bond didn’t answer, just waited for Q to speak.

“It happens,” Q sighed. “You’d be surprised how often it’s not an issue, though. Particularly with younger men. They’re more socially aware.”

“But not your type,” Bond said, as two tumbler-glasses of what smelled like Scotch were planted on the low table between them.

Q scowled, not bothering to confirm this. Bond had seen the interaction with Daniel. He picked up the glass and sniffed it, pulling a face. “Uh, smells like academia and suffering.”

Bond swallowed a mouthful, apparently just to annoy Q, smiling.

Q watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall. “…how did you know?” He asked.

Bond raised his eyebrows.

“Don’t get coy with me, 007, it doesn’t suit you. How did you know?”

“I saw you in the locker-room,” Bond shrugged. “I assumed it wasn’t a secret.”

“Of course it’s a secret,” Q said. “Unless I want you to know, it’s a secret. And I didn’t want you to know. No one else has figured it out, and I’ve been shirtless in basic training.”

Bond’s eyes flicked down to Q’s chest, again, but quickly back up. “Then everyone else is painfully unobservant.” He drained his Scotch. “I’ve seen those scars before.”

Q sat back, surprised. “But… they’re not… typical.”

“No, and I’ve seen those, too. Keyhole scars, yes?”

Q had to nod. “But… how… you’ve seen them before?”

Bond rolled his eyes. “You need to get out more, Q.”

“I get out plenty,” Q said. “But… apparently not as often as you.”

Bond smirked, then let himself be serious. “I assumed you didn’t mind people knowing, as you were walking about with no top on. My mistake. I apologise.”

“Did you tell anyone?” Q asked, quickly.

“No.”

“Then please don’t.” Q put his untouched tumbler down. “The only people in MI6 who know are Medical. And Mallory,” he added.

“Mallory knows?”

“He knows I changed my name when I was fourteen, and he’s not stupid.”

“Fourteen?” Bond looked surprised. “So, what, two years ago?”

“Har har. My parents were wonderful. I’m lucky. I never had opposition to my choices.”

Bond looked quietly uneasy at this sudden drop into Q’s past. Q didn’t expect a reaction. He didn’t get one.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Do you ever talk about it?”

“Only when sex is involved,” Q admitted. “It’s not… I don’t _need_ to talk about it. I’m me, and that’s all there is to it. It doesn’t define me. Being… trans.”

It was the first time he’d said it aloud, and it hung between them like a bubble, rapidly bursting.

“I’m sorry again,” Bond said, “for upsetting you before.”

“I think your heart was in the right place,” Q glanced at him, trying not to notice the open-neck of Bond’ shirt, the stretch of the buttons, the obvious outline of his pectoral muscles, the tightness of his trousers over his thighs. His hands.

Q had seen those hands snap necks, climb walls, fire weapons, snatch children from harm’s way, dress and undress men and women alike.

He was staring. He made himself look away.

Bond cleared his throat. “Did you need a lift home?”

Q almost said _yes_. He almost threw caution to the winds, and gave in. But not quite. “I don’t think that’s appropriate, but thank you,” he looked Bond in the face. “And for before. I could have handled it, but… I appreciate the gesture.”

Bond nodded, picking up Q’s untouched drink. “I know you can handle yourself, Quartermaster.”

 _So, why did you come over_? Q wondered, watching the dark liquid flow into 007’s mouth. _Why?_

The night ended with the two of them apart. Q getting what was one of his more memorable hand-jobs in the back of a taxi, and Bond having moved on to another bar.

It was a sad sort of annoyance, Q thought, as the stranger’s fingers rubbed at his small, erect cock, that even when he was getting off, he was worried about what Bond would think to all this. He came, silently, shaking, as his partner for the evening delightedly whispered his intentions to fully take advantage of Q’s capacity for multiple orgasms.

There were some advantages of his body that Q wouldn’t have instantly exchanged.


	4. Chapter 4

The MI6 Christmas Party was held in January. This wasn’t to avoid discovery, this was simply Eve failing to find anywhere that wasn’t completely booked up that could accommodate the amount of people and alcohol required for such an event.

As a result, there was a distinct lack of Christmas jumpers and felt reindeer antlers, and instead the place was filled with very stylish and sleek humans, all of whom were several glasses down after only the first hour.

Q, included.

It had been a bad week.

There had been four agents – one Double-Oh and three general field – lost in Asia. They hadn’t found all the pieces of the field agents, and the Double-Oh hadn’t been found at all. His mic had cut out with a blood-curdling scream that left everyone listening shuddering in horror, including Mallory. Q had gone home and searched his cupboards for something stronger than tea, ending up breaking open a bottle of champagne his sister had bought him last year. It was hardly celebration, but it dulled the throbbing agony of responsibility.

Q had lost those agents.

No one else could even try to take the blame. He’d been in their ears, watching through their eyes, directing them with technology so latest he’d finalised it only days before.

And he had lost them.

He picked up his brandy glass, and downed what was left of it, watching the rest of his department, and departments he didn’t recognise, dance and talk and help themselves to canapes.

Well, most of them were doing that.

Q’s eye was caught by a set of blue cobalt, across the room. 007 raised his own empty glass in _cheers_ , and Q found himself doing the same.

Bond pushed himself off the wall, and walked over as if he owned the place, moving through the crowd with the sort of practiced ease Q could never have imitated, even if he was half the width of the agent.

“Merry belated Christmas,” Bond drawled, as he approached.

“Quite,” Q said. “Seems almost indecent, considering the timing.”

“We lose people all the time,” Bond said, catching the barman’s attention. “It’d take serious planning to land a party in a week where we came out with a full contingent.”

Q stared at him, incredulously.

“Yes, sir?” the barman came over.

“Same again for me, and a double of whatever he’s having,” Bond nodded at Q.

Q didn’t even have it in him to refuse. The drinks were poured and delivered, and Bond sipped at his own.

“I didn’t know you drank, Quartermaster.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, 007,” Q sniffed. “And, for what it’s worth… I don’t. Anymore. Except this week. Lapse.”

Bond’s eyes flicked over him. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a habit. Or used to?”

“Not everyone is as dependent on substances as you,” Q said, thinking of his own dependence on testosterone injections. “But… at university… it was my relaxing drug of choice. Decided to quit during my post-grad, for my health. Did the whole kale juice detox thing, and decided I was better off.”

Bond nodded. “That’s very wise.”

“I imagine being a Double-Oh you have to learn to handle your drink as part of the job,” Q sighed. “You can’t be ordering a lemonade when you’re trying to infiltrate a smuggling ring, can you?”

“It might be a talking point,” Bond smiled. “Perhaps I should try it, next time.”

“I’ll be sure to listen in to that one,” Q smiled back, emboldened by the drink. His glass was half empty, again, somehow. He looked at it, thinking to himself that he should slow down.

Bond’s eyes were on him, and Q suddenly felt rather exposed.

“You… said you’d seen scars like mine, before?” he said, surprising himself, because that wasn’t what he’d meant to say, at all.

Bond blinked, taken aback, but recovered quickly. “Yes. About fifteen years ago, now, but… yes.”

“Did you kill him, or fuck him?” Q put his glass down, and pushed it slightly away.

“…what does it matter?”

“Because I saw you… looking…” Q said. “And… you were… interested.”

Bond drained his glass. “Not in your scars. Well, I was surprised by them. I hardly expected… But they aren’t what drew my… interest, as you put it.”

Q looked at him. “So you are interested.”

“Do you expect me to lie about it?”

“No,” Q shrugged. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“Does it bother you?”

Q considered. “I… I don’t want to be some sort of dream. Some boy-with-a-cunt wank fantasy. I’ve been that, and it’s awful. I’ve had enough of being a fetish-piece.”

Bond stared. “I’m insuted you think I’d think like that.”

“Everyone does,” Q said bitterly, taking up his glass again and managing to take a decent swallow before Bond took it from his fingers.

“I think you’ve had enough, Q.”

“Don’t…” Q considered snatching it back, but Bond had already swallowed it. “For god’s sake.”

“Time you went home,” the agent pushed his chair back. “Come on. You don’t want Eve to film you trying to walk out of here, do you?”

“I’m not walking out with you,” Q said. “You know what they’ll say.”

“Fine,” Bond fastened his jacket button. “I’ll wait outside.” And he walked off, no sign of the alcohol inside him as he made a _cigarette_ motion at Tanner’s raised eyebrows.

Q sat, and considered sneaking out the back, or maybe just ordering another drink, but if this was happening anyway, he might as well get on with it.

Forcing his feet to the floor, he walked as steadily as he could, taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, avoiding everyone else’s eyes as he exited the large and expensive bar.

Bond’s hand was on his elbow as soon as he was on the pavement, steering him into a private car.

The fresh air amplified the booze under Q’s skin, and his legs wobbled as he got into the car. Bond got in, and closed the door.

“Q, you need to tell the nice man where you live.”

“I…” Q was still with it enough to shake his head. “Just take me to South Kensington station, please.”

The driver nodded, and set off.

“I usually get the tube,” Q explained.

Bond’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t get a car?”

“Public transport is better for the wallet, and the planet.”

Bond snorted, and reached to get Q’s seatbelt, buckling him in. “You can’t tell me Mallory doesn’t pay you a decent wage.”

“Oh, just piss off,” Q sighed, putting a hand on Bond’s chest to push him away, but gripping a handful of his shirt, instead. “Oh.”

Bond glanced down. “Oh.”

Q looked at his own hand, at the shift creasing in his grip, as if it was fascinating. “I…”

“Here you are, lads,” the driver pulled up. “Your company’s got the bill.”

“Thank you. Come on, Q.” Bond half-dragged Q onto the pavement, and they waited until the car had gone before Q led the way to his flat.

“Nice area,” Bond nodded as Q got to his steps, and fished his keys out of his pocket, and started examining each one closely. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” He took them off the Quartermaster, and chose the key bussed on the edges, correctly inserting it in the lock, and turning it. The door swung open.

And Q forgot to tell him not to step in.

Bond’s shoes were on the doormat for half of one second before an ear-splitting alarm sounded, cutting through the air like a knife. They both clamped their hands over their ears.

“Move,” Q elbowed Bond out of the way, and marched into the lounge.

A dart shot across the room from some hidden barrel, hitting Q in the arm as he knocked a picture off the wall, and pressed his hand to a reader. There was a beep, and the alarm cut off.

“Fuck…” Q slumped to the floor, pulling the dart from his arm. “Oh, brilliant.”

“What the hell is that?” Bond snatched it.

“It’s a sedative,” Q said, his arms giving way. “I have no idea how it’ll react with alcohol. The first alarm is on a weight-measure under the doormat…” he lay back, trying to fight off the blackness eating at the edge of his vision. “Laser-guided dart to disable an intruder…”

“Q, what can I do? Tell me.” Bond was kneeling over him, his large hands on Q’s neck, measuring his pulse.

“You can…” Q shook his head. “Sorry.” He sighed, and passed out, missing entirely the way Bond scooped him up, and carried him into his bedroom, fingers taking his pulse over and over and over again.


	5. Chapter 5

Q woke up as something soft bumped against his face.

“Mm…” he brushed it away, and felt for his glasses. They weren’t on the mattress, beside the pillow, where he kept them. Instead, they were on the night-stand. He put them on, and sat up, the cat climbing onto his lap and mewling at him as he scrubbed over his face. She must hev nudged him, to try and wake him up.

Reality slammed back into his mind, then, as he realised he was fully dressed – with his belt on, even, though someone had taken his coat and shoes off – and had been sleeping on top of the duvet. No wonder he felt cold.

Bond. _Bond_ had put him to bed.

And not taken his clothes off.

Interesting.

Q had to raise his eyebrows as he absent-mindedly pet the cat, and thought about what to do. Clearly, the sedative wasn’t affected by alcohol, and Q knew it would have no ill-effects in the long-term.

Reluctantly, he stood, and stretched warm blood into his cold limbs, before going into the lounge and adjoining kitchen. He wasn’t in the least surprised to see Bond at the kitchen table, a bowl and spoon in front of him.

“Morning,” Q said.

Bond looked up. “Oh, good morning. I was going to try and wake you in half an hour or so.”

Q glanced at the oven clock. 08:32. “Well, thank you. And for the… assistance.”

“You’re welcome. In return, you can promise me you’ll buy some food for this place,” Bond pushed the spoon around the empty bowl. “What grown man buys chocolate cereal with marshmallows?”

“This one,” Q said, grabbing the kettle to fill it. “Tea? And did you sleep on the floor?”

“Yes, and yes,” Bond cricked his neck. “You don’t have a sofa.”

“I don’t usually have guests.” Q got down two mugs, and sorted teabags and milk before going to feed the cat. “Has she been harassing you?”

“Not too badly. I would have fed her, but I didn’t know if you had some sort of special schedule.”

Q rolled his eyes, and went to wash his hands as the cat started on her late breakfast. “Last night…” he said, as he dried his hands, “was I… ok?”

“You were just asleep,” Bond said, turning in his chair. “I left you on the floor for a bit whilst I checked you could breathe, and then put you to bed. You didn’t seem like you’d stop breathing, and your pulse was normal.”

Q touched his throat, without thinking, as if he could still feel Bond’s fingers on his skin. “Well, at least I know the break-in system works.” The kettle clicked off, steam pouring out.

“It was my weight on the mat that set it off?”

“Yes,” Q poured water into the mugs. “There’s obviously a percentage of leeway, but it is calibrated to my weight. If that’s incorrect, the alarm sounds, and the other systems activate. The dart was just one.”

“What else was there?”

“Electric shocks on the windows, a few other things… If it wasn’t turned off within a minute there’d be people mobilised… same as you have in your flat, I imagine.”

“I have a key,” Bond shrugged.

Q stared.

“…and a deadbolt?”

Q dumped the tea bags in the bin. “You really are impossible, 007.” He took the teas over, and joined him at the table. “But thank you for your… chivalry, last night.”

Bond raised an eyebrow.

“For leaving me dressed.”

“…why wouldn’t I leave you dressed?”

“I can think of a dozen reasons, not least you being Double-Oh-bloody-Seven,” Q said. He sipped his tea. “You could have passed it off as caring for me. I wouldn’t blame you. It’s been done before.”

“By whom?” Bond snapped.

Q shrugged. “Curious men.”

“Tell me their names.”

“Oh, piss off, 007. I don’t ned you to hunt down everyone who’s mistreated me. I am more than capable of planting evidence on their computers that would land them in prison for many, many years. But I don’t bother. It isn’t worth my time. Or yours.”

Bond snorted. “You don’t have to compare me to them, though.”

“No, I don’t. Perhaps that was unfair. I am… genuinely grateful you stayed. I had never tested the sedative on an inebriated subject, and something could well have –”

Bond’s fingers brushed over Q’s.

“…happened.” Q watched Bond’s calloused, war-scarred fingers stroke over his own pale, thin ones, then over the back of his hand. “Bond…”

Bond’s hand moved away. “I should go. Now you’re up.”

 _You don’t have to_ , Q’s brain said, but he nodded. “I’ll… get a camp-bed for next time.”

“I don’t mind the floor,” Bond said, then paused. “Next time, let’s have you less pissed, though.”

“Next time…?”

Bond’s tongue licked his lips quickly apart as he thought. “If you wanted there to be a next time.”

Q gripped his mug in both hands. “This… that really isn’t wise. Workplace… fraternisation.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “ _Fraternisation_?”

“Don’t pick at my words, 007,” Q sniffed. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I know you’ve said…” he cleared his throat. “I’ve had too many flings, Bond, that have ended up with awkwardly avoiding people in Tesco. I don’t need that at work, as well.”

“Who says you have to have a fling?”

“Oh, please. As if you could ever be expected to –” Q snapped his mouth shut. _As if you could ever be expected to be monogamous when you have to fuck your way to the truth, when you’re James bloody Bond, when the last person you tried monogamy with broke your heart and god knows if you’re even over her. And that’s without getting into the fact that I’m nothing more than a conversation piece at the end of the day._

Bond watched Q’s face twitch as he held back the words. “You think I’m just interested in what’s in your pants?”

“Or not in my pants,” Q replied. “I…”

Bond rubbed the back of his head. “I think you misjudge me, Quartermaster. Though, given what you’ve told me, I can’t say I blame you. And… you do watch me. In the field.”

“I do watch you.” Q blushed, memories of all the times he’d seen, or heard, Bond having sex suddenly rushing into his mind. “Bond, it isn’t that I don’t… I just don’t know if the aftermath is worth the… moment.”

“The aftermath.”

Q glared. “You know what I mean, 007.”

Bond picked up his jacket. “Well. I suppose I’ll have to prove to you that I can cope.”

“Prove… what exactly do you –”

Bond leaned down, and took Q by the chin, the scratch of morning stubble on dry skin felt by them both, a half-second before Bond crushed his mouth to Q’s.

The kiss broke after little more than a second.

“Good morning, Q.” Bond nodded at him, and Q could only gawp as the agent stepped over the cat, and let himself out of the door.

Q picked up his mug, and took a drink. The cat jumped onto the table, and fussed at his shoulder. Q stroked her head. “He’s an arsehole, isn’t he, Pea? Shall I let him woo me?”

Pea, the cat, gave him an admonishing look.

“You’re right,” Q sighed. “He’s already started.”


	6. Chapter 6

Q was just locking his front door when the slam of a van’s door made him look around.

“Are you number nine?” the driver called.

“Yes…”

“Delivery for you.”

Q immediately tensed. He’d seen too many agents taken down by faux-delivery drivers, and he suddenly wished he thought to leave the house armed, like everyone else.

Until the driver brought out a massive hamper from the rear of the van, and carried it up the stairs. “Any chance you can unlock that door?”

“Oh, yes, sorry,” Q undid the door, and quickly stepped in to deactivate the security system before accepting the hamper, which nearly made his knees buckle under the weight of it.

“Careful,” the driver warned, and they managed to get it through the front room to the coffee table between them. Q signed the tablet to say he’d accepted it, before letting the driver excuse himself.

He looked at the frankly obscenely large basket.

 _Fortnum & Mason_ was painted onto one side.

Q undid the buckles holding the lid down, and opened it with a resigned sigh. Boxes of posh cereal, artisan breads, loose-leaf tea, jams, pastries, and goodness knows what else looked back at him. He picked up the card from the centre, and flipped it over.

 

**To Q,**

**From J**

“You insufferable arse,” Q smiled, fondly.

 

*

 

It was a couple more days before Q saw Bond in person – Q branch wasn’t exactly somewhere you came across unless you’d been sent, or were planning a deliberate visit. But come Bond did, hands in his pockets, the trace of a smirk on his face as he watched Q put his scrabble mug down.

“Nice tea?”

“Yes, thank you,” Q said, aware of the staff giving the double-oh a once-over. He looked too cheerful for a briefing, and there was nothing on the rota. “Breakfast was agreeable, too,” he added.

“Good. You’ll need the energy,” Bond picked up a dismantled phone from Q’s desk, and examined it. “Need to keep your strength up.”

“Is that all?” Q snatched the handset back.

“All you’ll be keeping up?”

Q glared, blushing just enough to be noticeable. “If you’re not here for anything specific, 007, you can escort yourself out. This isn’t a playroom you can come down to when you’re feeling bored. Are you on downtime?”

“For another week. And I am here for something specific.”

A business card slid across the desk, stopping at Q’s mug. “What’s this?” He picked it up, and read it. “The Vault? Sounds like a seedy sex club.”

Bond didn’t answer.

Q’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Bond, do not think for one moment that I –”

“Of course it’s not,” Bond rolled his eyes. “But I suppose it does sound like it. Forget the name, it’s the question.” He reached, and took the card from Q’s hand, their fingers brushing, lingering, as he turned it over.

 _Friday, 8pm_.

“Oh,” Q went redder. “Oh, I… see.” He put the card into his pocket. “Thank you. Yes.”

“I’ll call for you?” Bond’s voice was low, so not to be heard, but the dark depth of it sent tingles through Q’s body, coming to settle between his legs as he flexed his fingers.

“Black tie?”

“Not quite.”

“Dancing?”

“If you like.”

Q smiled. “See you later, 007.”

Bond smirked back, and left, looking incredibly pleased with himself.

 

*

 

The date, in the end, never happened.

At least, not that night.

The Friday Q was due to be taken out dancing and dining, there was an explosion at a British Embassy in a far-flung country where there was supposed to be peace.

Dozens dead. More injured. One double-oh in a critical condition. It was suspected that 002 had been the target for the attack. The attack no one had been prepared for, no one could have anticipated.

Not even Q.

But that didn’t stop the guilt. The rage, that had Q kicking his chair across the room, the distressed anger that drove the Q-branch minions away, and brought Mallory down in shock as Q swore and spat furiously, trying to fly his people away from the danger, fingers flying over the keys, mouth barking at anyone who would listen until everyone alive was on their way home.

Only then did Q slump onto the hard floor, his remote keyboard on his lap, breathing heavily at the monitor bank, showing various flights taking off from airports, all headed back to London.

“Good job, Quartermaster,” Mallory said, kneeling down beside him. “Thank god we’ve got you.”

Q shook his head. “Twenty-eight dead. Thirty-seven injured.”

“And all thirty-seven out and on their way home.”

“…should have seen it coming.”

“We can’t see everything,” Mallory said, gently. “Even we can’t do that. We do our best, don’t we? Stop so many disasters, so many people getting hurt. So when it does go wrong, it seems so much worse.”

Q just looked at the monitors.

Mallory sighed. “Go home, Q.”

“I can’t.”

“They’re in the air. And will be for another ten hours at least, and transport from their airport is arranged. Go home, sleep. Come back with a brain refreshed and ready to work.”

Q wanted to argue some more, but Mallory was dragging him to his feet, and the man was surprisingly strong for his age. He prized the keyboard from Q’s hands, and clamped him on the shoulder, steering him out of Q branch efficiently.

Q was handed a paper bag of medication before he was bundled into a car, and taken home. The drugs were his preferred sleeping pill, iron tablets, and an anti-nausea shot. Standard shock kit. He crumpled the top of the bag closed again, and shut his eyes as he was driven home.

Alarm off, Q slumped onto the sofa. Pea, the cat, climbed onto him immediately, and began fussing his chin with her head, purring and kneading his thighs, threatening to pull threads in his trousers.

Q had no idea how long he sat there, until the bell rang, and he realised it was 8pm.

“Oh, hell…” he extracted himself from Pea, and went to the door.

Bond’s eyebrows went up as the door opened. “I know I said it wasn’t black tie,” he said, “but I wasn’t expecting you to be in your work gear.”

“Oh, piss off,” Q sighed. “I should have text you. It’s off. I can’t come out.”

“Why?” The blank look on Bond’s face was almost punchable.

“Bond, if you really can’t think why I might not be in the mood to go on a date, I am drawing a line under all of this, right now.”

“Because of what happened at the embassy?”

“…yes.”

Bond considered for a moment. “May I come in, then?”

Q was tempted to refuse. “Fine.” He opened the door wider, and stopped Pea escaping with his leg as Bond stepped inside.

“Have you eaten anything?”

“What do you think?” Q picked up his cat, and went back to the sofa.

“You can’t let this take you over so much,” Bond sighed, taking off his jacket (his new, expensive-looking suit jacket that he’d probably bought especially, and was now going to go to waste, Q noted dully), and going into the kitchenette. “You can’t stop them all, Q. It was random, unpredictable –”

“Nearly thirty people are dead because I didn’t do my job,” Q shouted. “Nearly thirty, 007. Do you understand that? Is there room in your Neanderthal skull to process the fact that those people are _dead_ , and that I could have saved them if I had been one jot better than I am?”

“How could you be better?” Bond snapped, holding the tea-caddy. “How? You’re in your mid-twenties and you’re the Quartermaster of MI6. You’re the best there is. If you couldn’t see it coming, no one else could.”

Q’s arms went slack.

Pea took the opportunity to escape, and trot into the kitchen after her own supper.

Bond put the kettle on.

Q listened to the sounds of tea-making, and then the tap running as Bond filled Pea’s water dish.

“She has prawns on a Friday,” Q said, breaking the silence.

“ _Prawns_?”

“Mm.”

Bond started grumbling, and Q caught snatches of it – _can’t feed yourself_ , and _bloody prawns for the cat_ , and _what you take me for_ , as he did as he was told, and received a contented mew from Pea as she started on her supper.

The smell of handsoap came then, and by the time Bond came back into the lounge, Q had made his decision about what to do.

“Are we going out,” Bond asked, “or not?”

Q took a deep breath, and got to his feet. He always felt the shorter one when Bond was around, but they were more or less the same height, which was pleasant. He gave a small smile, and touched Bond’s deep purple tie. “I think… we should order in.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: Vaginal digital sex, general porn.

Bond blinked in surprise as Q pulled him forward by the tie, catching the back of his head as their lips met. It was a horrible kiss, really – too bumping and awkward, and Bond nearly lost his balance as Q relinquished his grip on the tie and went for the agent’s shoulders, instead.

Not to mention the fact that Bond wasn’t kissing back.

Q stepped back, frowning. “You don’t want this.”

Bond almost laughed, incredulously. “That… could not be further from the truth. I’m concerned that _you_ don’t want this.”

“I’m trying to kiss you and you think I don’t want to?” Q raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you meant to be trained on picking up on that sort of thing?”

“I don’t think you’re doing this for… the right reasons.”

“The…” Q stood straighter. “Bond, it’s… sex. Not a diplomatic mission. I’ve had a frankly horrible day, and I’d quite like you to help me not to think about it. You’re supposed to be good at it, if the rumours are to be believed.”

Bond swallowed, and touched the back of his neck. “So, that’s what this evening was? Something to take your mind off work?”

Q was about to answer in the negative, before his brain kicked in, and he realised what was being said. “Ah. Bond… no. I didn’t agree to come out, go on a date, with you… just for a distraction. But with the events of today…” he sighed, looking around the small flat somewhat sadly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t expect you to want to… especially as you’re obviously dressed up for an evening out.” He licked his lip, briefly. “You might as well go and find someone to enjoy it with.”

Bond moved forward like he was on tracks, taking Q at the elbows, and holding him firmly. “I’ve found who I want to enjoy my evening with, Q. We don’t have to go out, but neither do we have to… do anything else.”

“But I want to,” Q said, enjoying being restricted rather more than he was about to let on. “I know you want to, and… I’m alright with it. I just want… to… not think. For a bit.”

“You want to _come_ ,” Bond said, leaning close to Q’s ear, his voice a deep vibration through the younger man’s bones. “More than once. Until you’re limp, and you can barely think about standing, let alone worrying about work. You want to come undone under my hands and tongue, feel the layers of resistance fall away as I work them from you. That’s what you want. Isn’t it?”

Q wished he hadn’t gone quite so scarlet. He nodded, and tried to look prim about it. “That… seems agreeable.”

“Good.” Bond nosed at the shell of Q’s ear before kissing the curve of skull behind it, down to the dip where Q’s jaw hinged, a slight suction of the skin setting Q’s nerves alight already. Christ, this was going to be his undoing.

“Bond…”

“And just so you know,” Bond looked at him, in the eyes. “I don’t think of you as some sort of fetish piece, Q. You’re just a young man I am very much looking forward to watching orgasm under my hand.”

Q could only squeak in reply before Bond went for his mouth, kissing firmly, dominating and leading without violence as Q clung to his suit-jacket front, knees threatening to give way. Bond tongue swept through the heat of Q’s mouth, and for a moment Q forgot how to respond, before tentatively trying, like a teenager getting his first snog.

And Bond thrived on it, sucking Q’s tongue into his mouth for a moment before kissing again, his hands going for the buttons on Q’s grey cardigan, popping them open one by one, pushing the Quartermaster’s arms down and out of the way to get the woollen thing off altogether.

“You wear far too many layers, Q.”

“It’s insulating,” Q gasped as Bond started on his throat. “Easy to – keep a decent – temperature – if… god, Bond…”

“James,” Bond corrected. “Since we’re friends.”

“Oh, is that what it is?” Q said. “James.”

“And I can call you…?”

“Q.”

Bond raised his eyebrows.

Q glanced away. “Don’t get into that right now. You’ll spoil it.”

“Fine,” Bond leaned down and bit Q on the clavicle, making him shout. “But we’re having this chat again, later.” It sounded like a threat. Maybe it was. Whatever it was, it sent electric heat down Q’s body, settling between his legs.

Q felt the rush of blood and sensation fire up his nerves, give him the beginnings of an erection that already asked for friction, for touch. Q arched his back, just a bit, trying to relieve the feeling.

Bond, ever the observant, noticed immediately. “Something troubling you, Quartermaster.”

“Take a wild guess, B- James,” Q blushed. He glanced at his bedroom door. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Bond let go of him abruptly, and started walking towards the bedroom, draping his suit jacket on a dining chair as he passed it, letting the heavy silk tie drop to the floor beside his kicked-off shoes.

“You impertinent man…” Q shook his head. And followed, copying the agent’s mode of undress, so by the time he closed his bedroom door (he’d lived with a cat enough to know that she would come wandering in if it was left open) they were undoing one another’s shirts in haste.

Q couldn’t help freezing as Bond parted the cotton of his shirt. A lifetime of unease about his chest meant the knowledge that it was perfectly flat and masculine, now, came second to the initial flinch of fear. The tiny scars either side of his chest - hidden, if he squashed his arms by his sides with enthusiasm – were the only proof that there had ever been anything else.

And James had spotted them.

Knew what they were.

“May I?” James’ fingers hovered over the puncture marks.

Q hesitated. “Not the scars.”

James didn’t insist, didn’t ask why, just moved his hand to Q’s breastbone and pressed firmly to feel his heartbeat, and Q almost loved him for it. Their kisses resumed, and as they disrobed one another a sort of quiet calm began to creep into Q’s mind. James was more than a bit experienced, but he didn’t touch or kiss Q as though it was automatic, robotic. He kissed and held him as if he couldn’t believe his own luck.

Perhaps it was just good acting – another skill in a Double-Oh’s briefcase – but Q hardly cared. He let himself be lowered to the bed, his trousers long since gone, and caught his breath as James undid his own belt and push those immaculately ironed trousers down over his thick, rugby-player thighs.

He then folded the trousers neatly, and put them on a chair.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Q rolled his eyes.

“Problem, Q?”

“Only with your upbringing,” Q teased gently, his voice wobbling slightly as James leaned over the mattress, climbing on, legs either side of Q’s hips, hands trailing down his body, raising gooseflesh even though the room was warm.

“Forgetting, yet?”

“Not quite,” Q said.

James smiled, his fingers running over the elastic of Q’s waistband. He glanced down at where their bodies met – James’ obvious erection straining at the deep blue of his underwear – Q’s black boxer-briefs firmly on at his skinny hips. “Do you –”

“You’re going to find it difficult to make me come if you don’t,” Q said, a snappish tone covering his sudden fear. It wasn’t fear of James seeing – lots of people had _seen_ , Q wasn’t a nun. It was James Bond _knowing_. And always knowing. If they fell out, or stopped speaking, or whatever… James Bond would always know what Q looked like there. He was handing Bond a weapon to use against him, and he would just have to hope to god that he never would.

James put his head slightly on one side as he slipped the tips of his fingers beneath the elastic, brushing over Q’s pubic hair. “I was going to say, before I was so rudely interrupted… Are you ok with me touching your cock? Referring to it?”

Q’s mouth dropped open like a drawbridge.

“Is that a yes?”

Q nodded, trying to get his voice started again. “Y-yes. That’s… what I want.”

“Good,” James moved quickly, pushing Q’s pants down and off as he moved down the bed, dropping them off the mattress before looking back at the man, stretched out like a pale brush-stroke, legs together, knees slightly raised in nerves.

Q expected Bond to push his legs apart and start getting his hands involved, but instead James moved up the bed, and started kissing Q again, soft yet insistent, one hand gripping Q’s curls, the other stroking down his arm, his chest, his stomach with his the barest hint of fingernail scratch that was so light and wonderful Q’s legs soon relaxed, and dropped gently to the bed, giving James permission to return to stroke through the hair that ran in a thin line from Q’s navel, and down.

Q tensed up as James’ fingers glanced over his cock, but the shock of pleasure from the friction made him relax and tense up in a different way.

James gave Q’s cock a deliberate look – Q was pleased he didn’t try to be discreet about it – before licking his thumb and pressing the wet pad to the exposed head, and pressing in a firm, circular motion.

Q’s breath caught, and he barely remembered to engage his good sense and grab the bottle of Liquid Satin off the bedside table. He nudged James’ shoulder with it, and James took it, uncapping it and slicking up his thumb and forefinger quickly before returning to Q’s erection. “You,” he said as he stroked over the soft skin, “are seriously. Fucking. Gorgeous.”

“Mm,” Q accepted the compliment as heat began to pool already along his cock, between his legs. James’ fingers gently spread him apart, tracing the shape of him, either side of his entrance, clearly knowing that Q’s cock had more to it than just the hardness between his finger and thumb. It was a gentle massage to an inevitable orgasm, Q’s legs trembling even as James stroked his increasingly damp flesh, pinched and worked his cock as though it was bigger than it was, whispering words of praise and wonder over Q’s body that made him want to melt.

James’ finger teased at the edge of Q’s entrance, feeling the slick dampness of the skin, transferring it up to his hot and hard cock, and it was Q’s undoing.

He cried out, grabbing at James’ hand to keep him still as he ground against his fingers, getting himself off until he was too sensitive to be touched again… at least for a few minutes.

“Better?” James bent his head down and kissed Q’s navel.

“Mm…” Q realised his eyes were shut. “Almost stopped thinking. Not quite.” He forced open one eye. “I must say, I didn’t realise your pants were still on, 007.”

“Yes, well,” James glanced down at where a patch of pre-come had begun to leak through. “I’m counting on your having a brief refractory period, Quartermaster.”

Q grinned. “You’ll be thrilled to know it’s practically non-existent, James. Now…” he sat up. “Are you going to let me taste that, or not?”


	8. Chapter 8

Q woke slowly the next morning, his legs trembling as he carefully stretched, wanting to avoid pulling a muscle first thing in the day. He was warm – getting almost uncomfortably so, and he pushed the duvet down from his chest as he snuggled into the pillow.

A sigh, and a turn of a body made him flinch, before he remembered.

 _Bond_. Q opened one eye, and risked a turn of the head.

James Bond lay, sleeping but clearly coming to, his blond hair stuck to one side of his head… they’d gone to bed with wet hair after showering, Q remembered. His own was probably like a bird’s nest. He smiled at the thought, at the memory of their mildly-awkward turn-taking in the bathroom, at Q’s insistence that Bond didn’t have to go home, if he didn’t want to.

And he was still here.

“You know,” Bond said, eyes still closed, “some people find staring rude, Quartermaster.”

“So I’ve heard,” Q said softly, running a finger over Bond’s hairline. “Just appreciating the view.”

“Mm,” Bond rolled onto his side to face Q, face pink from the bedroom warmth, blue eyes as intense in the lazy morning as they were last night when drawing Q’s third orgasm out of him. “Likewise. You’re especially nice to wake up to, I must say.”

“Obviously,” Q smirked. “Are you staying for breakfast?”

“Is that a euphemism?” Bond suddenly pulled Q forward, so their bare chests met, hot and soft with sleep. Q smiled, letting Bond kiss his jaw and neck good morning, indulging in the feel of the agent’s large hands against his skin. Last night had been so different. Normally, partners were desperate to get inside him, but Bond hadn’t even attempted it. Q came twice from Bond’s hand, and once from his tongue and mouth, gently sucking on his erection until it was almost sore, then lapping messily at the exposed head until Q came, shuddering and half-crying, clamping his legs together and saying he couldn’t bare it any more.

 _Had Bond even come, last night_? Q tensed as he tried to remember. Certainly Bond’s pants had made it off at some point, but…

“Do I owe you a favour, or three?” he asked, suddenly smiling.

Bond gave him a rather wicked grin. “I don’t believe in fair exchanges in bed. Besides, you were rather in need, last night?”

“In need?” Q frowned.

“You were so tense.”

“So, what – I needed a decent shag?” Q scoffed.

“Well, you’re still owed one of those, if you like.”

Q flicked one of Bond’s nipples with a fingernail. “Don’t push your luck…” he paused, biting his lip for a moment. “You didn’t try it, last night.”

Bond blinked. “…no? Did you want me to?”

“I wouldn’t have objected, I don’t think,” Q said. “It’s what most people want, when they have me. Straight men who come back with me want to fuck a boy with a cunt, and the gay men want to try a vagina, once they’ve had enough to drink.”

Bond winced at Q’s choice of language.

“I don’t care, because I’m not exactly looking for a chaste night playing bridge,” Q went on, gently stroking over Bond’s firm pectorals. “But it was… nice, not to have that as the inevitable endgame.”

“I’m a bit confused,” Bond said, kissing Q’s chin. “You didn’t want me to fetishise you, and yet you’re fine with other people doing it?”

“It’s… all I can get, for a one-off, isn’t it?” Q blushed. “I can’t take them home without them knowing, and the only people up for that being dropped on them out of the blue are the ones who think it’s sexy.” He blushed. “And… I didn’t really want you to be a one-night-shag, and yet here we are.”

Bond sighed. “You should have said. I would have spent more time wooing you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does if that’s what you want,” Bond leaned close, and kissed Q on the lips, gently, soft and sleepy, warm and reassuring.

“I wanted you,” Q said against the Double-Oh’s mouth. “I did, that wasn’t a lie. I’m glad we… did.”

“There’s time yet for romance,” Bond breathed, his kisses moving back to Q’s throat as he pulled him closer, Q’s skinny legs against his thick ones.

“How… would that even work?” Q let himself be rolled onto his back. “You’re married to England. You fuck people for information.”

“It’s only a job,” Bond said, pausing to look Q in the eye. “I’ve learnt to get detached.”

“…I don’t want to get detached from you,” Q said, breathless as Bond raked his teeth over a nipple. “But I can’t have all of you, can I?”

“You could have the pieces that matter.” A kiss to Q’s navel, and Bond knelt up. “But I can’t make that decision for you. You mean a lot to me, Q. As a friend, as a colleague, and as more, if that’s what you want. I’m not here to tick off some sort of list, to try it out. But it’s your call.”

Q shut his eyes briefly, before looking at the ceiling. “…I need another shower. And a tea.”

Bond nodded. “I’ll sort the tea.” He kissed Q’s soft stomach, again. “No rush, Q.” He looked up. “Unless we’re doing real names, now.”

“Oh, yes?” Q mocked gently. “You’re going to tell me yours, then? I know _James Bond_ isn’t your name -it’s a handle worn by a lot of men before you. But…” he stroked a hand up Bond’s arm. “It suits you.”

“Now we get to fair exchanges,” Bond chided. “You can’t get that sort of information for nothing.” He smiled, knowing how vulnerable this made both of them, and Q was torn between slapping him, and kissing his face clean off. “Do you take sugar?”

“One, even, teaspoon,” Q said, as they both got up. “And Pea needs feeding, if you don’t mind.”


	9. Chapter 9

Q found a box of TeaPigs Earl Grey on his desk when he got to work. It was unaddressed, and noteless, but he didn’t need to have everything spelled out for him. He smiled, and decanted some of the leaves into his diffuser, leaving it out for one of the passing staff to sort out – that was key to maintaining a position in Q Branch – knowing when and how to bring the Quartermaster his tea.

The day passed fairly quickly, helped by a small missile crisis halted by 004, and by the time Bond wandered into branch – eyes looking quickly away as he sauntered through – Q was thinking about whether or not he would make his usual train home.

“Q.”

“007, if you could just wait until I’ve secured 004 a flight out of her current predicament, that would be much appreciated,” Q said, keeping his vision fixed on the wall of screens.

“Book her a domestic.”

“I can’t. There’s a no-fly zone in place for civilians. They’re chalking it up to a baggage handlers’ strike, for now…” Q tapped away, and sent an enquiry before glancing up at Bond. His stomach did a small flip, and remembered excitement fizzed lower down, so he was forced to look away as Bond’s slow smile started. “Are you here for something, Bond?”

“Didn’t you get the message?”

“… are you being cute? Did you mean the tea? It was lovely, thank you. I’ve started drinking it.”

“No – well, you’re welcome, but – there’s a non-urgent deployment.”

Q looked up. “Where?”

“Cuba.”

“Nice for some,” Q brought up his overflowing inbox and located the message. “Ah. Alright… Ten days? Seems rather long for… that sort of job.”

“It includes an interrogation. Off the books,” Bond added, softly.

Q nodded. “Fair enough.” His tablet bleeped again, and 004’s flight was secured. “Right on time, apparently.” He closed the programmes, and put the tablet down. “I don’t have anything ready for you, you’ll have to come down to R&D.”

They took the stairs, Q’s dislike of lifts something he didn’t want to get into, but they could probably both use the exercise. Q swiped them both in, and the automatic lights lit their way as they went to what some more gung-ho agents (006, for one) called _the armoury_. Q called it ‘the stock room’.

“007… this is you,” he handed Bond a nondescript black box. “Standard field kit, and…” he picked a watch off the shelf. “You’ll like this – garrotte wire in the winder. Oh, and this pen doesn’t explode, but it does shock any user who isn’t you once it’s been clicked. And this is fun, it’s a sort of –”

Q’s words were squashed out of him by Bond’s mouth on his own, strong arms picking him up and sitting him on the steel-topped table as Q’s legs hitched up around Bond’s hips.

“Ten – bloody – days?!” Q raged, between kisses. “For an assassination and gouging some information?!” He yanked Bond’s head close, probably hurting him as he pulled sharply at his short hair.

“Could be shorter, if I get it sooner,” Bond started kissing at Q’s neck.

“I’m sure you’ll be _getting it_ as soon as you can,” Q sighed, suddenly pushing Bond away, but still holding his lapels. “It’s that sort of interrogation, isn’t it?”

Q half expected Bond to look away. But he kept eye contact, as only a Double-Oh can. “Yes.”

“Fuck…” Q squeezed his eyes shut for a second. “What are we doing? There’s cameras in here.”

“Cameras everywhere. What are they going to do – sack you? Sack me?”

“I’d prefer not to have my personal life dragged over the coals, particularly by Mallory,” Q said, but he still hadn’t let go of Bond’s jacket. He thumbed the material. “I can’t… Your job is stupid.”

“It can be.”

“I can’t say _don’t shag anyone else_ , can I?”

Bond pulled a sad smile. “You know I can’t promise that. You know that, Q.”

“I do know that. But I still want to say it.” Q finally let go, and let his legs drop down. “We shouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

Bond picked his dropped equipment up. “But you want to.”

“Of course I fucking want to!” Q hissed. “I just… I don’t expect you to carry me up the aisle, but I’ve never been with someone in this sort of situation. One-night, fine. Relationship, fine. This…” he gestured between them both, “I feel like some sort of side-piece anyway, I don’t know how I’ll cope with this.”

“You’re not a side-piece, Q,” Bond sighed. “I told you – I don’t see you as some sort of flavour of the month. You’re not someone, or something I wanted to try out. If you think you can get on board with… the less savoury aspects of my job…” he raised his eyebrows. “You know where to find me.”

 

*

 

Bond’s ten days in Cuba turned into two weeks, though relatively uneventful. The delay was caused by weather, people not co-operating, and the fact that Bond somehow managed to lose his radio and earpiece and therefore couldn’t be tracked for a good twenty-four hours by anything other than CCTV, which was severely lacking.

Q ended up delegating the Bond-sitting to others. Watching the agent made his heart hurt, and he knew it was affecting his performance at work. The delay aggravated Mallory, who came stomping down to Q branch looking for someone to blame, and settling on Q, who took his bollocking with the grace of someone who knows they’re a replacement target for the real villain. Mallory apologised the next day, and Q shrugged as if he hadn’t been up all night worrying about his future at MI6.

It hadn’t been the most traditional job interview: Q had hacked into MI6, and two hours later had someone huge and terrifying knocking on the door of his flat. A black bag went over his head, and he was let out of it in what seemed to be a police interrogation cell. The enormous man who had kidnapped him stood in the corner, his hands folded over his belt.

Q now knew the man was 006, and the thought of Alec Trevelyan looking so menacing was hysterical. But, at the time, he had been worried he was going to be beaten to bits.

Until a little old lady came into the room, and sat opposite him at the table, and started asking him questions. Who he was, what he was studying (PhD in Hypothetical Computer Languages), and why he had the audacity to hack into a government website.

Q had to confess that it had been almost appallingly easy.

He wasn’t surprised when she asked him to improve the system, in exchange for not being prosecuted.

It took a few hours to bring the site up to standard, and to make a list of other improvements needed to the system.

By the end of the night, Q had a job, a new identity, and the threat of being killed hanging over him if he so much as breathed a word to anyone. Q quietly finished his doctorate, before moving house and taking up the new ‘safe’ flat offered to him.

The work was easy, he found, and he spent most of the spare time he had during the working day in Research and Development, designing weapons, smarter technology, and eventually building them and trying them out.

It was likely that no one would have learned about his gender if it hadn’t been for an exploding pen. One of Q’s ideas – the old Q, that is. The damn thing backfired, and shot the cartridge straight into Q (then S)’s thigh.

Medical didn’t bat an eyelid, though they did laugh at the cause of the accident.

It was M who broached the subject, when she visited.

“Why didn’t you say?” she asked, dropping box of grapes onto the bed.

Q blushed. “Is it foolish to assume I thought my medical records were now open to MI6?”

“I don’t have time to trawl through my staff’s medical records unless I suspect they are hiding something that would impact on the security of this country,” M sighed. “So, why didn’t you say?”

Q popped the punnet lid open. “Because it isn’t relevant.”

M smiled. “That wasn’t what I meant. I meant, your costs should, and will be, covered by us, from now on.”

Q looked up.

“I know you aren’t registered with a GP, and I know you buy your hormones from the internet,” M went on. “That stops, now. Go for an assessment with someone here, and get yourself sorted. It’s all too easy to spike drugs ordered online, and you’re… valuable.”

“Valuable,” Q repeated.

“Yes,” M stood, and smoothed her skirt. “And you should ask yourself why Q allows no one but you into R&D alone. Trust goes a great distance. And is just what we need more of, around here.”

 

*

 

 _Trust goes a great distance_.

Q mused on that, on the way home. He missed the old M, they all did – she hadn’t exactly been a ‘nice boss’, but she did right, by everyone. She did what she could.

Q liked to think he could half as brave, one day.

He wasn’t surprised to see a sleek, silver car parked up outside his flat. Nor was he surprised at who got out of it, carrying a tiny silver bag.

“Bearing gifts, Bond?” Q fished out his keys. “You do know how to charm me.”

“For Cuba,” Bond let Q disable the alarms before following him in, uninvited. “Thank you.”

“It wasn’t me,” Q dropped his messenger bag onto the coffee table. “It was mostly R, and some others. I wasn’t watching you. Sorry.”

Bond frowned. “You’re always watching me.”

“I know, I’m always in your ear,” Q rolled his eyes. “But… knowing what you were there to do… I just didn’t… fancy watching.”

“Well, so much for my vow of celibacy,” Bond put the bag down, and Q could just see it had something sparkly inside. “If you’d been watching, you’d know.”

“Know?”

Bond stared. “Why do you think it overran so badly? I didn’t… I had to get information out of her in other ways.”

Q stared. “You didn’t have sex with the suspect.”

“No.”

“…why?”

“Because I knew it would upset you.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Q shook his head. “It’s your job.”

“It’s a part of my job you dislike, and I thought you’d be watching me, so I avoided it,” Bond said.

“But… you won’t always be able to,” Q said.

“No.”

“Right…” Q paused, as Pea came trotting out of the spare room, and started rubbing herself over his legs. “You did that for me, then?”

Bond nodded.

“You… you’re serious, then?”

“Deadly,” Bond said. Then smiled. “You look so confused.”

“Because I am. Because you’re James Bond, you shag around on missions, that’s what you do.”

Bond smiled wider. “True. I suppose it is somewhat out of character. But… that’s all I have, Q. That’s all I can offer. Being able to, on occasion, refrain. It’s not a subtle job, using men and women for information. But that’s all it is – just a job. Unlike you.”

“Then… what am I?”

“Impossible,” Bond reached for Q, and pulled him close by the arms. His blue eyes looked over Q’s face. “You didn’t look into my file.”

“No, I didn’t see the point,” Q said. “You’re James Bond. That’s all you’ll ever be, really. I don’t need to know what came before. You’ve never asked my dead name, and I hope you never will.”

“But I have asked your _real_ name.”

“Yes, that is different,” Q smiled. “James.”

“Will you ever tell me?”

Q raised his eyebrows. “I just have. James. My name, before everyone called me S, then Q… was, is, _James_ Whittaker.”

Bond stared at him for ten solid, silent, seconds.

Then burst out laughing.

“It’s a very common name,” Q sighed. “But you seem to have the monopoly on it, here.”

“You’re Q,” Bond laughed, more gently, embracing Q properly. “I think that’s who you are, really.”

“Agreed,” Q smiled, and pecked him on the nose. “Now… are you going to take me to bed?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Vaginal penetration, general sexy times.

Bond insisted they both shower.

Q thought it might have killed the mood, somewhat, until he realised Bond meant _together_. It seemed more intimate than the bedroom, somehow, with the bright bathroom lights on, the water giving shine to naked skin, bubbles clinging to hair, settling in the cups of Q’s collarbones.

Bond kissed him hard, holding him upright so he didn’t have to press Q’s back against the cold of the tiles, and Q appreciated it – the water was just barely enough to hit them both. Bond was warm enough, and Q pressed himself forward, enjoying the soft slide of skin on skin, the catch if they stuck together if they lingered too long, and the feel of Bond’s growing erection against his legs.

Q shifted, reaching behind himself and between his legs to catch Bond’s cock between his thighs, and squeezing tight.

Bond moaned, caught by surprise at the action. He thrust, the mere rock of his hips making Q’s body tingle in anticipation, the motion what he craved, though without the fullness that should have come with it.

“I can see why this was so popular in ancient Greece,” Bond murmured, kissing Q just behind his ear. He rocked forward again, and Q’s cock ached to be touched, to feel that hardness against it, and he gave a tiny moan of longing. Bond smiled against his skin, and dropped his hand down, over Q’s stomach, teasing at his water-soaked pubic hair before stroking gently over his cock.

“God… water really isn’t lube,” Q sighed, his hips jerking for purchase against Bond’s fingers. “I…” he stopped trying to speak as Bond’s fingers dipped just inside him, feeling the slick wetness of his body, before transferring that natural lubricant to the exposed head of his cock, and smearing it over the sensitive flesh.

Q parted his legs as he hummed in delight, Bond’s cock taken in hand, instead. Bond expertly thumbed at Q’s cock, moving the sensitive skin back and forth over the erect shaft, teasing at the head until Q’s legs started to shake, and he grit his teeth in frustration.

“I can’t come standing up,” he sighed, trying to angle his body better, the shower cubicle not a help. “I can’t…”

“Never?” Bond asked, parting his index and middle fingers into a ‘V’, and pressing firmly either side of Q’s entrance, along the edges of his pleasure, that he knew were part of his cock. “You don’t ever come like this?”

“No…” Q flinched as his growing pleasure faltered. “Worry my legs’ll give way… Bond…”

“We could try…” Bond smirked wickedly, pushing his fingers back together and teasing at Q’s entrance.

Q shook his head. “Just take me to bed?”

“If you insist,” Bond’s smile softened, and he dropped suddenly to his knees, giving Q’s cock a wet kiss that turned into a suck, all the blood in Q’s body descending to those nerve endings and making him gasp.

Bond stood again, as if nothing had happened. “I’ll get you a towel, shall I?”

“You beast,” Q sighed, turning the water off and catching his breath.

 

*

 

It took less than five minutes to tease Q’s first orgasm out of him when they got to the bedroom. Q was flat on his back, barely seeing the ceiling for stars as Bond’s tongue circled and pressed and licked at his cock, the barest hint of a finger pressing against his entrance in a desperate tease that had Q shuddering and coming noisily, reaching down and pressing Bond’s digit inside himself in a wanton act of selfish pleasure. Bond seemed to love it, doubling the penetration and pressing firmly against Q’s g-spot, moving barely back and forth against it, as though just dipping his cock in and out even as he pressed the sensitive head of Q’s cock with a lubricated thumb, making Q’s aftershocks feel more like a second orgasm before the Quartermaster had to push him away and press his legs together to try and fight off the pulsing feeling, like a heartbeat in his cock.

“Do they give you lessons in that, or something?” Q murmured, feeling the bed dip as Bond leaned beside him.

Bond laughed, gently. “No, you have to be self-taught in that regard.”

“Does that make me feel better?” Q mused.

Bond stroked down Q’s body, from his breastbone, over his concave stomach, down to his crossed legs. “I hope it doesn’t make you feel worse.”

“No,” Q looked at him. “It doesn’t.” He glanced down at Bond’s hard cock. “What do you like?”

“Now, that would be telling,” Bond smirked. “You’ll have to find that out for yourself…” his breath hitched as Q stroked softly from base to glans, before running the pad of his middle finger over the partially-retracted foreskin, letting the leaking precome soak his finger before repeating the motion, this time pushing Bond’s foreskin back, carefully exposing the glans before thumbing over it, watching a fresh bead of moisture form at the tip before spreading it over the hot skin. Bond stifled a moan, and Q saw his hand clench at the bedclothes.

“It’s times like this I get jealous,” Q said softly, repeating his gentle touches, running his fingers over the loose skin at the base of Bond’s cock. “Seeing what it must feel like, to you.”

“From what I’ve seen, you’re not missing out,” Bond sighed, thrusting up into Q’s torturously loose grip.

“I know I’m not,” Q said. “But… now and then. I think about it.”

“Fuck, Q…” Bond searched for purchase again, and Q held his erection in barely-gripping fingertips. “Would you… I mean, there’s surgery…”

“I don’t like what’s on the market,” Q bent down and planted a kiss on the tip of Bond’s cock, licking with the point of his tongue at the damp and slick head. “And nine times out of ten I don’t care. Still…” he swirled his tongue over the glans, and Bond gripped the sheets harder. “Sometimes I think topping might be nice.”

“I can think of a way to arrange that,” Bond huffed out a breath.

Q looked at him. “You’re serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Q raised an eyebrow. “Because it’s you.”

Bond smiled.

And Q had to smile back. “Please, Bond, never stop surprising me, will you?”

“I’ll try,” Bond reached for him, and Q straddled his hips as they kissed, Bond’s cock pressing up between the cleft of his arse, making Q rub back and forth against it, feeling the thickness against his flesh until Bond made a positive growl of frustration, and held Q’s hips still, shaking his head. “You’re the worst tease, Quartermaster.”

“I’m not a tease,” Q reached to the bedside table, and grabbed a condom, and the bottle of lubricant. He raised his eyebrows.

Bond didn’t reply. Just sat up, and wrapped his arms around Q, holding him tight, kissing him like he might vanish in his arms.

And after a moment of barrier application, Q gave a sigh of near-relief as he got James Bond inside him.

“Oh…” he held onto James’ shoulders. “Oh, fuck…”

“Are you ok?” Bond swallowed, his hands splayed on Q’s back.

Q nodded. “Yes. Very…” he rocked his hips back and forth. “God, if you knew how much I’d thought about this…”

“Does it live up?”

“Just about,” Q smiled, moving himself with purpose, rocking to move Bond’s cock in and out of himself, getting used to the thickness, the press on his insides, the wetness of lube and natural slick that meant the glide of their bodies was almost effortless.

James moaned into the curve of Q’s neck, thrusting up into him, the angle all wrong, now, so they moved, James staying seated inside Q as the quartermaster lay back on the bed, and James hooked his long legs around his waist, so he could thrust into the man, and keep touching at his cock as he did so.

Q cried out at the rhythm, his arms grabbing onto the iron-wrought bed-head as James fucked him. The rub of lube-slick fingers on his cock soon had him shaking with need to release again, and it only took James to change his motions to a quick dip in-and-out of Q’s hole to have Q crying out again, grabbing at James’ hips to pull him inside as his muscles clenched around that hard length.

Bond didn’t give him a moment to get over it – he rode Q’s shuddering aftershocks, thrusting against the soft walls of him, keeping that hot pleasure going until Q sobbed at the over-stimulation, and James came, with a deep moan that went straight to Q’s bones and made him hang onto James so tight they would both bruise.

 

*

 

“It doesn’t really count, as infidelity,” Q said, later that night. “Your job, I mean.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Bond said. “It doesn’t count for anything.”

Q rolled over to look at those blue eyes, lit only by the moonlight coming through the curtains. “So…”

Bond took his hand. “What can I do?”

“Just keep coming here,” Q said. “Until you don’t want to. Then, at least have the good grace to tell me, before you stop.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Bond nodded, and kissed Q’s hand. “…boyfriends?”

“Sounds a bit high-school,” Q said.

“Partners?”

“Too divorcee.”

“Then… what?”

“I’ll think of something,” Q yawned, rolling over and inviting bond to be the bigger spoon. “It can wait. James.”

James kissed the base of his neck as he wrapped an arm over him. “Q.”


End file.
